


briars, my joys and desires

by auraofdawn



Series: Grip [2]
Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Dadgil, F/M, Family Feels, Father-Son Relationship, Introspection, Post-Devil May Cry 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:54:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23938729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auraofdawn/pseuds/auraofdawn
Summary: Swept into a mirror world by a familiar demonic power, Vergil finds something more precious than he'd ever thought possible.
Relationships: Kyrie/Nero (Devil May Cry), Nero & Vergil (Devil May Cry), Nero's Mother/Vergil (Devil May Cry)
Series: Grip [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1699264
Comments: 26
Kudos: 110





	1. the garden

**Author's Note:**

> this takes place directly after chapter 10 of [the devil's got my arms](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21784648/chapters/51981415), but you don't have to have read it to be able to follow along, I swear! I realized exactly how self-contained this was as soon as I finished it, so I figured presenting it as its own thing would work out ok, especially for those that just want a good, short dose of Vergil fighting a losing battle against his own emotions lol

_I went to the Garden of Love,  
_ _And saw what I never had seen:_

Vergil stirs from his own bed for the first time in decades. At least, from what he can recall. 

Its far plusher and larger than anything he can remember sleeping on, let alone getting sleep. He huffs just thinking about how Dante and Nicoletta had mocked him for refusing to rest throughout their entire endeavor, and its a mattress fit for a king that defeats his resolve.

But that's exactly what troubles him, deeply. He’s awoken in an unfamiliar place. Yet, it gives off a welcome feeling. One of warmth, belonging.

Then it hits him: It’s decorated like _home_. 

Elegant carvings and tasteful art and decorations litter the walls and shelving. Chandeliers hang about and antique furniture fill the space. Straight from the Romantic and Gothic periods, from a glance. As familiar and unfamiliar as it feels, he gets the feeling he would have chosen a place like this. It’s his taste. It suits him. 

But it is not his. 

He wanders away from the bedroom into a hall that breaks off into more —a couple bedrooms, a study, a tasteful washroom, until a noise breaks him out of his reverie and pulls him to a flight of finely carved stairs. He admires the woodwork briefly until his head snaps up to the source of the noise: The closing of a pair of grand doors by none other than Nero. His son. 

The boy is the same and isn’t. His hair remains its usual length and his blue jacket even looks similar, but the shirt underneath is no longer dirty and frayed but tucked, pressed, and spotless. Even his pants are more nicely tailored, though they remain in the annoyingly loose style that the youth of the day seem to prefer. 

“Nero?” he gapes, unsure if either of them are even real.

The boy’s sharp eyes flick up to him on the stairs, surprise in the wide blue hues that mirrored his own. Vergil prepares himself for the glare and shout that will follow, but balks. If he doesn’t say anything, his son won’t become angry, surely. But instead of frowning or glaring, Nero _smiles_. 

“Hey, dad. Thought you’d still be out?”

“I...” he is genuinely lost for words. Nero, offering him such an honest smile for absolutely free? So nonchalantly greeting him with warmth? It makes his chest tighten with warring emotions; the warmth of a son so glad to see a father, the uneasiness of this foreign place, yet the rightness of just _being_ there. 

“Hey, you alright? Did Dante send you back early because you came down with something?” Nero’s voice is laced with concern Vergil recognizes as usually reserved for Kyrie and the orphans. Even Nico. Never had Nero given it to him to date. 

In his reverie his son has already raced up the stairs to him, gingerly placing a hand behind his back and taking his arm with the other, steadying him on the banister. 

“No,” he manages to gasp, hating the weakness that slipped into his tone, “I... left.” It’s not entirely the untruth, but his mind is abuzz with too many thoughts to sort at the moment.

“You look like you haven’t slept in weeks,” Nero observes. 

It was more like months, actually. Not that he had needed it in the underworld. 

“Well, I’d put you to bed, but you’d catch hell if you slept through dinner,” he chuckles and a wave of warmth reverberates through his father’s chest. How quaint. “Wanna sit down in the library?”

“Please,” Vergil begs. And Nero leads the way, more delicately than he’d ever seen. Each step down the stairs he pauses, allowing his father to go first before following, hands firm on his back and light on his arm, careful to never let the man leave his grasp. Encouraging words leave him every few steps, stalling his father’s brain with each “steady now” and “careful” that followed, free of charge. 

The library Nero led them to fit perfectly into the first floor of what was apparently a large manor. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined the walls, all elegantly crafted themselves, fit to hold the hundreds—if not thousands—of tomes that were neatly tucked into their shelves. Beautifully patterned rugs littered the floor, accented by mute chairs and desks strategically placed near lamps or windows. And what of the windows! Despite the overwhelming amount of books and shelves there was no lack of light in the space, as each piece of furniture seemed to receive a perfect amount of light from the ceiling-high glass panels, accented by thin frames of beautifully-stained glass. The floor and bookcases shined with all the colors of the rainbow that danced in time with the sunset, creating a space that radiated more warmth than Vergil had beheld in decades. 

It was one of the most beautiful things he’d ever seen. He finds himself stock still just looking at all of it when the glass glazing over his eyes breaks and zeroes back in on Nero, who’s gingerly depositing him into a chaise by one of the windows. Vergil leans back easily, enticed by the firm grasp of the seat, but his gaze is still locked on his son, who’s now reaching out for something. 

“What?” 

“Your coat,” Nero reaches and tugs on a sleeve, and his father balks again before slowly raising his arms just so, allowing him to easily pull the sleeves off. 

Vergil immediately feels cooler, but nonetheless unusually warm. He takes his free hand to feel his forehead, but he can’t fathom the difference between his own perceived temperature and that of his head. The back of Nero’s hand joins his and the boy frowns. Finally a gesture that he recognized on his son, he thought with a bitter mirth. 

“You’re not feelin’ great, dad,” Nero frowns, but again follows it with a hopeful smirk as he turns to one of the many bookshelves. 

“That I do not,” Vergil replies, perching his cheek in his hand. 

“I’ll get you something.” Nero disappears into the many shelves, only the falls of his heavy boots signaling his search. 

Vergil doesn’t know what to think. He feels fine and he doesn’t. He knows this Nero, yet he doesn’t quite. He sees this place and yet he’s certain it doesn’t exist. It’s all so much, so much more than the simple ideal of power that had been his sole goal for so long. Power was supposed to be above all this, simpler yet so much more advanced than this. It would give him everything, yet he had wound up with nothing. 

But this, this is something.

Was this a dream if it all felt so real? Could any visions of his own split and reformed mind possibly come up with something so intricate as this? Would another higher power put it upon themselves to torture him so? It had, once. 

But then there’s Nero, his son of six months. An orphan of twenty-four years. In a way he’s grateful he had no knowledge of the child before his imprisonment, lest the thought of his own blood, _his heir_ —not Dante’s, not his father’s, nor anyone else’s—be used against him throughout those horrific years. Mundus already had plenty to break him with, but the thought of Nero, a uniform of silver hair and sharp blue eyes that lit up with something all his own, facing anything like that bore something new within him. Something he hadn’t felt horror even close to since the first embers of ash came floating down the lane to the playground. 

“Here,” the boy sets a glass of water down next to him and Vergil greedily drinks. In Nero’s other arm—fully human, his father notices, alongside the lack of the metal cuff that indicated his more recent use of the Devil Breaker—balances a small stack of books, which he sets down on a desk just opposite his father. “I found some of your favorites,” he picks up a few, flashing the covers at him with an eager smile and not a hint of discomfort or the like. “I could read 'em to you, if you’re too tired to read 'em yourself?”

He wants to say yes. His son, reading to him? Could he have ever imagined such a thing? The Nero he knew would have had to be dragged kicking and screaming to do such a thing. And that was if he did it without some form of bribery. 

Yet, Vergil finds himself saying otherwise. 

“Wouldn’t you rather spend time with Kyrie?”

His son’s smirk thinned and reformed into a shy smile as his cheeks went red and he scratched his nose nervously. As he did so, Vergil noticed the small glint of a single silver hoop earring lodged in Nero’s left ear lobe. It matched the metal clasps of his jacket and strangely suited him, despite its absence in his known present. 

“Dad, don't start. She might be at dinner later, anyway. Besides, if I don’t keep an eye on you, you won’t actually relax, will you?”

Vergil hummed. The boy had him tagged.

“What about this one?”

Nero is holding up another book, though Vergil has to strain to see it in the reflection of the searing sunset that shines off its gold embossing. But the second his eyes squint, he knows it. He knows that golden-stamped Roman numeral anywhere. 

“Yes, please.”

“Where should I start?”

“Anywhere is fine.”

Nero’s eyes gain a fierce concentration from the pages, quickly scanning and turning as he searches for a fitting verse, or perhaps something that wasn’t in his other copy. When those mute blues seized up with delight and tune back on his father though, Vergil hardly needs to hear the words. He knows them well, but Nero’s warm, delighted, bright gaze is new and gift more than any of them. 

> _A Dove house filld with Doves & Pigeons _  
>  _Shudders Hell thr' all its regions_

On and on Nero's steady voice went, beholding the lines with a care that couldn’t be lent. Slowly, his father's eyes were lulled close, and to a warm abyss did his form fall. 

* * *

_A Chapel was built in the midst,_  
_Where I used to play on the green._

Vergil awoke like he had never been asleep in the first place. Just as he had opened his eyes the first time, it felt like only a blink, yet the lack of a blinding sunset and his limited memory reminded him that time had in fact passed. How much, though, he wasn't sure. All he's sure of is the desk lamp left on at his side, his jacket hanging on the chair, and the long light of the foyer leaking into the doorway of the library, illuminating the intricate design of the rug.

He was still here, yes, but would the same Nero be awaiting him? Would someone else be there? He almost doesn't want to know. He's far more anxious than he should be, considering how serene the environment is. But, as he had learned, absolute silence was to be respected far more than noise. 

With a heft he would never admit felt difficult, he extracted himself from the cozy clutch of the chaise and cautiously made to leave the library. He briefly glanced back at his coat and considered taking it with him—he had no idea what was in store for him and didn’t want to lose it—but resolved that he didn’t _need_ it. It was his human fear that wanted a mere piece of clothing as a shield; his pure demonic needs had no use for it. 

The bright lights of the foyer temporarily blinded him, and he raised an arm to shadow his gaze as he slowly scanned about. There was little noise or telling light to guide him, but allowing pure curiosity to lead him earlier had worked out well enough with Nero. In the absence of his son, however, the empty house would have to do all the talking for itself. 

And speak it shall, through the artistry that adorned the foyer. Darkened by nightfall, the room where his son had saved him looked no less warm from the lack of daylight. Tapestries intricately woven in elegant designs centered on the carved emblem of Fortuna—that certainly alarms him, if only because his memory of the place is so hazy. Vases piled high with seasonal blooms. Art tastefully coordinated. The display is continued into what he assumes to be the drawing room—if only because it’s placement so mirrors that of his childhood home. 

What he finds is almost literally a shrine. 

Adorning a grand piano, the corner, and over the mantle of a grand fireplace are countless photos and paintings. Of Nero, he sees the boy’s entire life play out in candid and posed sittings alike, his face the picture of youthful naïveté. Of himself, his younger, sterner face gradually melts into a thin smile that becomes more apparent the more his son appears beside him. Of the woman on his son’s other side, a picture of defiant beauty and wisdom that only seemed to blossom with age. A face he never thought he’d see again, at least in the time he knew. 

Of Nero, of himself, of this _family_. A family that had endured all struggle and thrived, even. A family unbroken. _His_ family. 

All the frames and canvas, big and small, pale in comparison to the grand oils that depict this world’s version of himself, decked out in full Fortunan finery, flanked by his wife and son. Not unlike the portrait of Sparda and the rest of them that once greeted he and Dante home from play every afternoon. It’s what he always worked towards, in some recess of his mind, but it feels unreal. 

And then, as if waltzing from the painting into reality itself, the woman appears by his side and hooks her arm through his. 

He startled slightly, and had to channel all of his manners and self restraint to keep from pushing her off him. 

“Savior, I forgot how _horrid_ that dress was,” she giggled, a low mocking in her voice. 

Vergil frowned at her and back at the wall. And again. In his limited opinion of women’s fashion, he couldn’t think any of the outfits she appeared in to be particularly comfortable, or even tasteful. Fortunan fashion remained a touch too gaudy for his taste even in this world, it seemed. 

“Which one?”

Her chuckling flowed into full-breathed laughter, her elbow tugging on his own as she tried to rein herself in. 

“You’re right, they’re all so awful,” she shook her head. "But none were nearly as bad as my wedding dress... good lord.”

She pointed a slender finger at the next-biggest portrait: that of herself and him, as young as he recalled upon his original visit. But gone was her red dress and white hood, replaced by a horrifically puffy champagne-colored ball gown that swallowed her small frame whole. Underneath a bush-sized bouquet of lilies of the valley, he could tell, was a fair-sized baby bump that only exaggerated the billowing folds of her dress. 

Vergil absently ran a finger over his left hand and felt nothing. He didn’t wear a ring. Of course, he’d always felt vulnerable with bare hands. _A swordsman’s grip is more important than the sword itself_ , his father had told him. Even Dante listened to that advice, and had worn gloves even when he couldn’t be bothered to wear a shirt. They provided better texture and grip and warmth, when desperately needed. But to date, the only jewelry he’d ever worn was his mother’s amulet, and none since. Even here, that stayed true. 

“Somehow I don’t think that could have been helped,” he murmured. Nero’s mere presence indicated they may not have had much choice in the matter, but the pure grandeur of their appearance suggested it was celebrated like the wedding of the century. Why? 

The loud echo of a brass knock stops him cold, and briefly he pictures a horde of demons greeting him politely, as his blood demanded, before waltzing in and trashing all he held dear. That was practically what had happened the first time. 

The woman released his arm and peeled back into the entryway. “Oh, they’re early! And before we even have _tea_ ready!” she sighed and darted around the room, checking this, that, and the other. 

Vergil’s head spun.

“Could you get that, dear?” Called his wife—his wife! He was never going to get used to that—from the other room. 

“Of course,” he called back without giving himself time to regret. His hands fell heavily at his waist as he walked, reaching instinctively for a sword that wasn't there. He could still defend himself, yes, but Yamato lent a certainty that his younger selves had occasionally needed. Now, it served more as a blatant warning to all who dared to even consider challenging him: only one look at Yamato was all they would get before it would be their last.

The large, elegant doors swung easily aside, but Vergil still found himself glaring at what, and whom, greeted him. 

“Lord Sparda,” a chorus of voices echoed, one sweetly melodic and the other a stern baritone. The mere title sent a chill through his spine—though he’d never admit it—but he felt more curious than flattered. What on earth was he lord of? And how had he won such respect from humans, rather than demons?

“Good evening,” was all he could think to say. The young man and woman standing before him pulled at no memories or hints from his native present, so he could only guess what significance they held in this reality. 

A long silence filled with too much smiling and grimacing stretches just long enough before his manners kick in. He bade them to cross the threshold and they did all too eagerly. 

“Kyrie! Credo!” the voice of his wife saves him yet again. He begins to wonder how much of a habit it was, usually. She had done such, before. But that was a different time, a different life altogether. 

"Lady Sparda," they greeted with another curtsy and bow. 

She rushed in with a flurry of skirts and boots, fine embroidery and silks swishing in her wake. She held all the air of a lady of an estate, only befitting her stature, of course. This Lady Sparda was a large jump above the maiden in a simple red dress and too-loose hood that had stalked him quietly and fed him insider information, only for equal bits about the outside world. 

Too many flashes come at once, they threaten to blind him. He cannot afford to get lost in the past when the present still confounds him so.

"I'm so glad you could make it," his wife is still fawning, cheek-kissing the girl—Kyrie, he assumes—on both cheeks and wrapping her in a maternal embrace. She does the same for the man she called Credo, though she substitutes the kisses for a firm nod. "Nero will be especially excited, I'm sure," she added with a wink.

Kyrie burst into a gaggle of giggles and pink flush, though she attempted to lower her face to hide such. "I would be equally glad to see him well, my Lady," she admitted. 

"He went out to run some errands, so I'd expect him back shortly," explained the lady of the house, bridging the gaps in Vergil's own mind. He didn't assume the boy would be hovering over him so much as to be there when he woke, yet a small part of him wished he had. He stomps on that sentiment, a bit too hard actually, as he inadvertently catches the attention of the group. 

"Shall we await him in the drawing room, then?" he cleared his dry throat and motioned towards the warm, photo-filled walls.

The women hummed plaintively and went on, but the young man stalled and eyed Vergil wearily. He stared back coldly, absolutely bereft of any knowledge of him. Instinctively, he pinned Credo as a solider, a man of stature, surely just by the eyes and poised shoulders alone. But the worry that swarm in those dark brown eyes—it could go one of two ways.

Vergil suspects one in particular.

"My Lord, if I may have a word in private?" Credo asked.

He did not expect that one.

Vergil keeps enough of his sense to nod and motion for the man to follow him through the house—the house he still has next to no knowledge of. For a moment his mind spun as he turned and found himself lost in the parlor again, only for the familiar entryway of the library to save him yet again. He made a show of reacquiring his coat from the chaise and taking his time putting it back on while Credo stewed with whatever thoughts troubled him.

“What do you wish to speak of?” Vergil asked. 

“It isn't a request so much as it is... a situation, my lord.”

Vergil’s brow furrowed with impatience. He had no such time to deal with this world’s issues any more than his own. Unless this man was about to offer him an easy path back to his native world, he didn’t want to deal with it. 

“Then speak. All the information you can give would surely help any judgement you seek from me." But the more he learns about this place, the better. 

"It concerns your son, and my sister. I'm sure you know by now that they do not intend to court any others."

Ah, yes that fit. That certainly seemed like the girl Nero and Nico had mentioned in passing. Vergil had seen a picture of her, though its memory had barely stuck, even if this Nero was so different. But they weren't married in either world? Had he even thought to ask? How long had they been together? And did they live together, in a place as conservative as this? His mind wanders off in more directions, but Credo keeps talking.

“As her elder brother and the Supreme General of the Order, I’m sure you know that I have to make certain... acknowledgments. I can’t train Nero adequately while also allowing him to see my sister at all hours of the day."

_Oh._ This is not what Vergil is qualified for. Does Credo know that Nero is a child out of wedlock, he wonders. Even in this universe, he is sure that fact is no different, even with how differently things clearly went.

"But, as my brother-in-law, well, there would be no issue."

Vergil clasped his hands together, the picture of a lord passing judgement resolutely. "Do you approve of their relationship, then? You don't wish me to end it?"

The look on Credo's face is ghastly. All lines of order and resolution crack into horror and fear—odd, he'd assume a man with such prestige to be against _any_ attempted courting of a younger sister. 

"My Lord, no! It’s just the opposite, actually: I wish for you to arrange them sooner, rather than later. As much as I wish it were, this isn't merely the folly of two young people in love, but their circumstances stand to effect our entire society, so I feel the most... _careful_ preparations should be made."

Vergil hums. Twenty-five years ago, he couldn't have been bothered with such an errand. Young hearts and their twisted, unpredictable emotions were just part of the myriad of reasons that drove him to claim his father's power. Power, he had theorized, would bring all those twisted facets of emotion into absolute clarity. Sparda had operated as such, and still managed to raise a family of high class. Well, somewhat. Temen-ni-gru was to be Vergil's first step on a similar path. Perhaps, eventually, a family could have been part of it as well. Though it should have been much _much_ farther down the line than just nine months after his arrival on Fortuna. But more pressing does he finds the fact that any version of himself would stay here, let alone raise an unintended child with a woman he barely knew.

But he does recall how much power the Order wielded, even back in his day when they'd still functioned as a solely religious faction, not semi-militaristic. He wonders, how exactly between then and now do they differ, and where this Order of the Sword breaks from the one Nero complains of in his native world. His mind curls and turns back on Credo, an exemplary solider if he had to judge a man on his demeanor and stature alone. There was something in the air of him, the way he stood his ground not just with his own firm, sure words, but in defense of others—his sister and Nero, namely. Somewhere in all those qualities was a familiarity Vergil admired. After only minutes of knowing him, his instincts seem to immediately approve of Nero's would-be brother-in-law, and he finds himself wondering where on Earth the man is in the present he knows.

He needs to know more, so he flits his gaze between Credo and the library's dim bookcases with mock pondering. If there was one thing he knew about humans, it was that the longer they stewed, the more anxious to please they became—and he requires Credo's help desperately. But not so much that he will freely admit it, oh no. So he folds his arms behind his back, faces the dark stained-glass windows, and waits just a bit longer.

“Do you know how I came to be lord of this isle, General? How the former vicar was deposed?” he said it like a nostalgic elder, not the endlessly curious outsider he truly was. Humans were easy to deceive, as such. An honorable knight like Credo would leap at the chance to do all the work for him. 

“You helped to expose Sanctus as the treacherous murderer he was, and expelled him from the church and state,” Credo recited the history with the tone of a student obediently answering a professor. “He would have been sentenced to communal service or life in prison had he not been killed by demons shortly after.”

Vergil's brow rose, though he made sure to hide it from Credo. “How did that happen, if he was a wanted criminal?”

“I remember it quite clearly—it inspired me to join the Order once I came of age in the years after. He was placed on house arrest until a proper trial could be held, but some say he escaped, because some holy knights were still sympathetic to his previous years of service for the church.”

“Fools,” Vergil scoffed. 

“Absolutely, milord. It put the entire city in danger and divided the knights. You went out to help the effort yourself, actually. Do you not remember?”

“It was long ago,” was all Vergil could think for cover. 

“Yes,” Credo smiled fondly. “Nero would not have been born yet, I think, because Kyrie was not walking at the time. I remember my mother pacing with her, worriedly.”

Vergil stares at the outline of a darkened lily illustrated in the window and sighs.

“No one is entirely sure when or how the demons came, but by morning it was clear that they had found Sanctus and rather efficiently taken their revenge. Your ascent in the Order followed swiftly thus.”

Vergil could picture himself running out into the night after such a vile man. With or without the threat to an expectant wife and a city in peril, he was not one to let his enemies escape their deserved justice. He had already been tempted to do away with the vicar on his first visit to Fortuna, but he allowed the harmless worship of his father to convince him that they posed no threat. But they had, and his other self had taken care of it efficiently. Good. 

“Yes, it did."

Credo nodded resolutely. “The whole of Fortuna has been better since the blood of Sparda returned to guide her, and now we stand to remain as such for generations to come.”

“Is that why you wanted to speak with me privately?” he questions, because this young man is exactly how he recalls his own self, all those decades ago. “To state your sister's worthiness of such?”

“I did not want to seem too forward, my Lord,” Credo bows again, and Vergil finds himself almost pitying the man, “but yes. Nero has asked for her hand several times, but at this point, she has had to decline.”

“And why is that?”

“At first they were far too young, and I believe he was asking out of impulse. Then you and your wife began requesting that they both wait, but I fear they are getting impatient.”

“So why do you come to me on behalf of them?”

“Each time he asks, I see her come home and claim to be well while her heart breaks silently, and it tears through me loudly, sire,” Credo has to break eye contact and shake his head at the ground. “She is like a songbird that’s lost it’s voice and it’s simply unbearable to see her so. And Nero, he—he treats her so well. There is no other on the island I’d rather have as an in-law.”

Vergil could not stop the smirk that curled into his lip. “Our family name aside, of course.”

Credo nods quickly and over-zealously. “Absolutely, milord. That is what I wanted to make completely certain of to you. I made my own way to Supreme General and Kyrie has done her own within the choir. Our parents raised us honorably before we lost them, Savior rest their souls.”

_Ah_. That, Vergil recalled from Nero. Even his own presence on the island wasn’t enough to save a few lost souls from their abrupt end in this world. He wondered just how much more fate had proven unshakable here. 

“I must admit I do fear for her abrupt rise in status—she has been trained for crowds of those in services when she sings, not those of the wife of a son of Sparda. She is kind and open-hearted but occasionally meek, and I fear what years of exposure to the gossiping public would do to her.”

“You should have no fears. Nero himself pays little mind to what orders I give him, let alone the impressions of the masses. As long as they provide little to talk of, they should be fine." Vergil shook his head and turned away. "But I don’t have such worries, not of words, no." 

Credo's brow raised. “No?”

“General, when you’ve seen the darkest depths of hell, you fear little of the human realm, if any at all. I don’t plan on leaving Nero’s life as quickly as my father left mine, so you needn’t worry for their extended future, either. That will be my doing.”

That seemed to soothe the general's worry more than enough, with the way his face froze and paled. It passed quickly, however, and Vergil was left faced with the form of a loyal solider awaiting orders.

“My wife and I will speak with them further, soon," he assured him.

Credo bowed once more. “Thank you, my Lord Sparda.”

“Vergil,” he corrected.

“Ver—Vergil?”

“If we are to be family, then?”

“Y-Yes." A steady smile began to bloom on the general's face. "Of course.”

Vergil surprised himself by reaching out and receiving a good, firm handshake in return. It was so rare, that a human impressed him so quickly, resolutely. He could only think of one other recent example, and that was a mess of things he'd rather not dwell on, especially not in this befuddling dream. 

"Shall we?" he motioned out the door and there Credo went, each march another reassurance that this was a man he could trust, rare as those were. So much so, that he allows himself to follow, just this once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy fuck writing super orderly speech is so fun lol I really wanted to put them on the same level here, bc Verge would absolutely see himself in Credo and Credo would die to be in Verge’s good graces and its just such a cool dynamic!!
> 
> I will say I don’t have a super-firm stance on Nero’s mom, but one thing I like that I’ve seen in Nero’s mom/Vergil fics is the concept of Vergil’s “moment of weakness” reinforcing his determination for power. It explains why he’s SO one track minded and over the top about it—bc if you suddenly caught real feelings for some fling on your summer vacation, wouldn’t that alarm you, too?? 
> 
> I do like it in the form of further humanizing pre-DMC3 Vergil, tho! As good and hilarious as hopeless romantic clueless teenage Vergil is, a lot of other people are better at writing that than me 🥺 I’m a bigger fan of Verge thinking he has to do the “right” thing and marry the girl so he can legitimize his son—only to catch feelings and melt into a soft Dadgil because of them both. 😊 So here, canon!Verge is not only reminded of the girl he nearly forgot, but slammed with the possibility that staying with her and raising a kid would have been the BETTER choice by far! And that’s definitely scrambled all the logic in his brain rn lmao
> 
> also big princess diana vibes in here bc, well, to Fortuna it would be the wedding of the century and that dress was honestly horrendous. it convinced an entire generation that gigantic sleeves and skirts were a good idea? really??
> 
> thanks for reading and check out my [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/auraofdawn) for previews/updates!


	2. the chapel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner concludes and Vergil is left with some late-night time alone to think. Well, almost alone.

_And the gates of this Chapel were shut,  
_ _And Thou shalt not. writ over the door;_

Dinner goes as well as it can when one is misplaced in an alternate world. That’s what Vergil assumes, at least. 

Nero arrived late—typically, as his mother and Kyrie teased him. But besides a slight flush of his cheeks and a scratch to his nose, he doesn’t react. Not even with a snarky comment or a brief glare. 

Vergil almost gapes with his mouth wide open. How peaceful was this world that bore him a son so calm and warm? It is still one that took his own mother from him, as far as he knows, so it is far from perfect. But it certainly made the most of everything he had left. 

His pre-dinner conversation with Credo seemed to have given him a shield from most pointless table conversation—it took only a few pointed looks between the siblings and his wife for the message to get across. Odd, how the sentiment appeared so clear yet they all avoided the subject like the plague. It didn't bother him that much; the less he had to pretend to be a part of this world, the better. He isn't so optimistic to hope that simply letting this evening end with a decent night's sleep will make the dream disappear, why, he's all but forgotten the feel of a real dream. If there is a way to be made out of this world as he found his way into it, the sooner he finds it, the better.

Credo and Kyrie are kind enough to not overstay their welcome, at least. After a simple dessert and some amiable foibles in the drawing room again, he and his wife are able to bid their goodbyes and retire for the night while Nero lingers in the parlor with his sweetheart, the Supreme General of the Order supervising close by.

Vergil does not immediately plan on giving the boy the talk he promised Credo—partly due to his lack of experience, and partly due to the mess of emotions they'd unraveled earlier. He does not plan on remaining trapped in this place long enough to see the union through, regardless. Perhaps, if the situation was remotely the same in his native world, he would bear witness to a wedding soon enough.

But he knows better than to hold on to that hope. 

Luckily, the Lady Sparda sprints off for "dibs on the shower," as she claims, and is gone in another flurry of skirts hitched up like the young adults prattling in their parlor downstairs. Clearly, whatever clandestine and improper boundaries their relationship had began on only escalated over the years. He only hopes that his alternate self holds on to at least some of the propriety befitting their name. 

He hadn't spent any time in the bedroom he awoke in earlier—he'd been rightly unnerved by everything and anything and his mind was an aimless mess—but now he sees that it is more of an entire wing than a room. One door led to a short hallway that branched off into two walk-in closets, a washroom, sinks, and only then did the bedroom reveal itself. All of it was as tastefully decorated as the rest of the house, save for the walls. There, just like the drawing room, was a collage of a life that he had no part of.

This one is almost exclusively of Nero. In pictures, in words, in symbols. All that he was and had been was right here at Vergil’s fingertips, and he had no clue where to begin.

Amongst the sea of pictures are various certificates and achievements—all earned by his son—in everything from fencing to orchestra and ballroom dance. A particularly nice one, more beautifully framed than the others and featuring the most illegible signatures, appears to be for the graduation from an academy, dated with what should’ve been Nero’s eighteenth year. But it’s not the elegant script or the long words that catch his attention, no, but rather the bold printing of his son’s name:

_Nero Angelo Sparda_

What in all nine hells. 

“Dear,” he intones, eyes still locked on the certificate, “remind me again why on earth we gave Nero his middle name?”

His wife hums from somewhere across the suite. 

“I couldn’t tell you,” she pauses in the middle of curling her hair into a bun, brown locks a waterfall framing her face. “You’re the one who picked it, after all.”

Vergil's brow curls into knots. “Did I really?”

“Yes, I at least recall you going on and on about proper nouns and such,” her eyebrows so scrunched up in tandem with her lips even as a small laugh slipped out. “Remember how easily we settled on his first name? Of course we couldn’t decide if he even _needed_ a middle name for the longest time.”

“Curious,” he hummed, mostly to stem the flow of anger brewing in his throat towards his alternate, foolish self. “I can’t fathom why I would’ve picked that one.”

“You aren’t eighteen anymore, dear,” she clicked her tongue and sauntered past him towards the closets, a warm hand lingering on his shoulder as she passed. “I did like it, when you suggested it, though. He was our little angel.”

He couldn’t stop the snort that burst out. “That’s the only time he could have been either.”

“That’s why _dark_ angel suited him so well. We just didn’t know it yet.”

“...of course not.”

The Lady Sparda picks that moment to walk into the room in her robe. Vergil immediately averts his eyes—out of respect, at least, to this woman who is literally someone else's wife and also technically his—but finds that it’s rather modest. So modest, in fact, that he _recognizes_ it. His eyes widen and his breath catches in his throat, though he hadn't planned on saying anything. Yet, it alarms him just to think: _that's my robe._ Or rather, the coat he considered his pride right next to Yamato and his mother's amulet. 

If not the exact same thing, it’s a faithful recreation; baby blue silk edged in gold and embroidered with the white dragon said to personify a god of death. The sleeves are looser on her thin arms and the front is tied with what could have also been his old _sageo_ , but the sentiment is true. The Vergil of this reality must be nostalgic, he thinks, to be one who gifts his wife with the very visage of his teenage pursuit of power. Perhaps, in that man's life, the robe is a symbol of his victory, or a reminder of how far he's come. 

_How foolish_ , this Vergil thinks. 

He’s had enough ruminating in the past in general, let alone someone else’s. Finding his way back to his own world is far more pressing. He’s not keen on dealing with any more of this odd world’s rises. But of course, there goes his luck again. 

There’s a knock on the door. Odd, for how late it is. Vergil instinctively tenses, his hand reaching for his side where Yamato was usually tied, grasping at empty, dense air. 

“My lord? My lady?” asked a thin voice. 

His wife hummed nicely but eyed him sternly. The towel around her neck indicated she was in no position to receive company. At least, he thought so. He’d never exactly _lived_ with a woman who wasn’t his mother before. 

“Yes?” he opened the door a crack to find a maid all but cowering. 

“You have a visitor,” she told him. 

“This late?”

“He said he’s your... brother?” The maid didn’t seen to believe it herself, but the furrows in her brow said otherwise. 

_Ah_ , Vergil gasped. Dante would know something, or at least provide an outlet for his frustration should he be completely useless. But then he thought, which Dante would he even be met with? His Dante? This world’s Dante? Another, unknown one!? He hates how his temple begins to throb. 

"I'll see him outside," he said even as he was already brushing past the maid.

The meek voice yelped again but he paid no mind. He had no time nor room to. He has yet another showdown with his twin scheduled. This, he knows how to handle well, no matter the place, no matter the circumstance. 

* * *

_So I turn'd to the Garden of Love,  
_ _That so many sweet flowers bore._

Dante is his one universal constant, it seems. Shaggy hair in his eyes, an overgrown five o’clock shadow, dirty boxing bandages around his wrists. His jacket is even the same, right down to the fading color and fraying at the seams. 

Only it’s his queue to turn from the darkness, moonlight shadowing his face. 

“I knew you’d still be up,” his brother smirked. 

Vergil huffed. “I should be more shocked at seeing you awake when not on the job.”

His twin chuckled and shook his head. Funny, he’d expected more of a glower, or another comeback. Was this Dante... calmer? Friendlier? _No_ , he throws the thought out of his mind and stabs it with a summoned sword. That’s just not possible. Not for him. 

Then Dante let out a wide yawn and stretched his arms. “You know I can’t pass up a good nap, but we have some unfinished business,”

“Don’t we _always_.”

Then, as his brother turns and starts fiddling around with his motorcycle— _not_ Cavaliere, as Vergil pointedly notes—it becomes clear Dante is here more for a delivery than a visit. Or even a fight. But they at least need a conversation, as equally painful as it would be, because Dante has to know something and even a broken clock is correct twice a day. 

“Dante...” Vergil starts, because he doesn’t have an exact word for what’s happening, and his brother isn’t the sharpest sword in their family cabinet. “Do you understand the concept of parallel worlds?"

His twin is barely shocked or startled, with how easily the revelation rolls off his back. “What, like the mirror world?”

“What?”

“Saw it in a movie. Or a show.” Dante shrugged. “I dunno.”

_Of course ancient demonic magic would just look like cheap human fiction to him_ , Vergil realizes. He can only hope their father isn’t sighing, wherever he is. 

“I don’t want to alarm you, but I believe I am trapped in such a place,” he sighs heavily, all the pressure in his chest leaving with it. “Here, actually.”

“Wait,” Dante stops his shuffling and gets close, wide eyes searching deeply into his brother’s, and Vergil has to hold himself steady lest he instinctively summon a ring of swords. “You tellin’ me you’re not really _you?”_

“Not the version of myself that is native to this reality, no,” he explained. “Not that I believe.”

“Shit, that’s crazy!” Dante burst into a wide grin. His brother could only frown. “How’d you do that? How long you been here? I just saw you this afternoon and you seemed... you-like.”

Vergil sighed and massaged his brow. “I was hoping you would be able to shed some light on where our paths dissect.” And he hopes and prays to the ghost of their mother that Dante actually knows something for once. 

But his twin just shrugged. “I’m all ears, brother.”

“You have to tell me, what’s happened?”

“When, where, and why?”

“How is this possible? I don’t know anything of this life, but a different one. One where I don’t have any of this.”

“ _None_ of it?”

“Well, Nero is still there, but he despises me.”

“I can’t imagine why.”

A tired sigh escaped thin lips as Vergil dragged his hand over his face. "Dante."

His brother takes the hint with half a sigh and small chuckle. “Well, we got separated after the attack on the house. We found each other awhile later on the longest limb ever, but it didn’t work out right away. Took awhile. You started talking about that dumbass tower and I knocked the sense back into you. But then you disappeared again and I almost had a heart attack.”

“Why?

“You sent a goddamn wedding picture! And—don’t tell her this—but your lady was _huge_. Don’t you think that’s a bit much to save for the mail? Not even a call?”

Vergil is silent. He saw the picture of question in the drawing room. That was dress his wife hated the most. 

“I got lucky I found you real quick after that, otherwise I wouldn’t have gotten to meet the kid when he showed up.”

That, another picture he recalls, starring the both of them, indiscernible from each other, staring down at a bundle in a dark blanket. It’s a good scene. He would have liked to remember it. 

Still, Vergil feels the need to evaluate all possible loose ends, lest this seemingly warm world have a cold caveat awaiting him. “What happened to the seals? To Temen-ni-gru?”

“You never mentioned it again. And last time I checked, a giant tower didn’t erupt down the street from my shop.”

“But I remember Temen-ni-gru, Dante,” he blurted, “it rose. The hell gate opened. We went to the underworld.”

“How the hell did that happen?”

Vergil feels an uncomely flush of something sear through his neck and ears, but he refuses to lie: “I broke the seals.”

“ _Why_ the hell did you do that!?”

“To unlock the power father left to us. It was our birthright.” It was plain and simple: it was owed to him. To them. But this Dante, just like his own, had no interest in understanding. Of course. 

He's throwing his arms up into the night air, utterly aghast. “It was just a pretty necklace and a sword! A shitty one at that!”

But Vergil sticks to the only guns he can mind: his own. “Why would he have given us the perfect amulet otherwise? He entrusted them to be passed on, just like Yamato and Rebellion. He _meant_ for us to use them.”

“Yeah?” Dante’s eyes glinted with mischief, and Vergil felt his fists tighten instinctively. “Well, why the hell did you give them to Nero?”

“What?”

“When Nero was born, you gave him your half of the amulet. Not a smart move, though, it was _way_ too big for him,” he laughed, but Vergil’s face did not move. “When he turned eight you started training him to use the Yamato, so by the time he started helping me out, you just let him have it.”

“When was that?”

“Five years ago.”

Nineteen. What an odd age in their family. 

“So?” Dante set his hands on his hips and glowered with all his usual humor. “Did you give your son the keys to the demon world because you want _him_ to raise a tower of doom?”

“Of course not!”

“Then I don’t get how you think it was okay for you.”

“....It wasn’t. But," Vergil sighed deeply, the words clawing at his throat. "'What is the price of experience? Do men buy it for a song? Or wisdom for a dance in the street?'”

Dante barked a good laugh and shook his head. “Well, I'm glad both versions of you have some good humor left.”

Vergil could only hope he someday felt the same. He took a deeper breath to finish the verse: "'No, it is bought with the price of all that a man hath: his house, his wife, his children.'" He let himself pace a bit, just to force the fearsome cage of his chest to calm down some. "I wasn't even left with the curse of your company there," he told his brother.

“Come on. A universe where we don’t stick together?”

“It’s more likely than you think.”

A look passed through Dante’s eyes—wide and wild as they were normally. It was briefly of surprise but then something darker, something sad, something familiar. He had to realize exactly what that meant. This present wasn’t so far removed from the one Vergil knew, of course. 

“Well, that shit doesn’t fly here. You’ve been stubborn as all hell, but we’ve stuck together for as long as the kid’s been breathin, so I’d say it’s been good.”

With the power of yet another confident grin from Dante, the air finally thins. Vergil actually allows himself to hope that the bombs have all finished dropping. He’s not sure what else could shock him anymore, unless...

“How have you fared?" he dares to wonder aloud. "Here, I mean.”

Dante scoffed—a short, snide thing that threw Vergil for a loop. “You’re the only one who settles down, if that’s what you’re wondering. Demons still need hunting in every world. Don’t have too much down time.”

That wasn't surprising at all. Vergil can't help but wonder that is Dante's constant fate. 

“And Nero helps you?”

“You too. That’s actually what I came by to talk to you about—you forgot the trinket we found last time out. I don’t need anymore cursed shit around my shop.”

Dante holds out a aged staff; corroded and worn but still elegantly carved and beholden to a pair of wings. Straining, Vergil tries to sort out his thoughts—it seems familiar, but he’s seen so many artifacts lately, they’ve all started to blend together. The wings make him think of the Roman pantheon and then—

“Where did we get this?”

"Some local freaks where powin' around with it. When we find demon stuff out in the wild we usually split it; you take all the boring trinkets and I always keep the weapons because you didn’t want Nero messin' around with ‘em when he was little,” he chuckled. “Now he tries to take 'em all from me, the little bastard.”

“That’s my son you’re talking about.” Vergil grit his teeth and snarled. He’d have thought his twin would know better, but of course he’d also be the only one who would dare. A double-edged sword their relationship was, no matter the place, no matter the circumstance.

Dante sighed. “So you always remind me. You don’t have to rub it in.”

A long beat passed and Vergil found himself studying his brother’s face far closer than he’d usually dare. This Dante was startlingly similar to his Dante, yes, and that was beginning to feel like a bad thing. Still roughened and unshaven, with far more prominent wrinkles and unkempt hair. But there’s a jadedness to his eyes, normally so light and devious, that it gives his brother pause. 

“Dante...did you, ever...?”

A dry laugh flew from his throat and landed in the dirt. "Not all of us are made to be family men, brother. Hell, I was shocked you turned out to be pretty decent at it! Nero can be a little demon sometimes, but you’re still his hero and that’s all that matters."

“Really?” Vergil's eyes widened, though he averted them away from the matched set across from him.

"Course! Why wouldn’t he? Things that bad on your side?"

The ghost of a shrug was all he would admit to his twin. “I haven’t heeded the best results.”

"Shit. Well, we got past it here." A wave of nostalgia passed through Dante—Vergil knew, it was nearly all he had been showing, back in his native reality. "My big brother... dropping everything for a shotgun wedding and a baby! Who woulda thunk it?"

Vergil stared between his brother and the grand scale of Fortuna Castle, it’s spires and towers casting sharp shadows in the pale moonlight. This universe continued to surprise him, the more he learned of it. Between this, the mostly-familiar form of his twin in front of him, and the staff clenched firmly in his grasp, there's only so much he can comprehend at once. Desperation born of this amount of frustration had sent him towards far worse methods before, and if there's one thing he learned from all of them, its that the emotional toll of each was not to be underestimated. 

That this place holds perhaps the highest amount of warring feelings he's encountered since V 's human heart first beat, fails to escape his notice with every passing glance, word, and action. All of it compels him to declare ' _foolishness_ ' and scoff, and yet... here he is, asked to pass judgment.

"Not I."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vergil's quote in the second scene is of course from our good man William Blake, specifically "the Price of Experience." And Blake is a romantic, so we're focusing on Good!Verge being a gigantic sap who thought giving his wife the robe he wore while slaughtering the order of the sword was PEAK ROMANCE lmao. she likes it bc its the coat he was wearing when they met c:
> 
> Middle names are weird but if Nero already got named after an mis-translation turned easter egg, why not just keep up the pattern, huh? even tho our Verge absolutely wants to kick his AU self’s ass over it. Anyway Nero totally got sent to the best school on the island with all those extra-curriculars that he either loved or hated depending on whether Kyrie was in his class, but he tried them bc his dad asked him to and he lowkey enjoyed music and dance bc who doesn’t? Even if it’s the fancy kind? Fencing ofc fed into swordsmanship so that wasn’t bad. Orchestra was the worst bc violin is wicked hard and our boy does not have his dad's patience, aight
> 
> I’ve also decided that instead of agonizing over giving Nero’s Mom a name, that she’s technically Vergil’s Lady, huh? Right?? And since they don’t raise the tower, they never meet actual Lady, so the title is ripe for the taking! (lets just assume that if Arkham never convinces Vergil to raise the tower, that Lady found him and killed him like she planned, k) I’ve always felt weird about trying to assign names to canonically nameless characters—it just never feels right to me. Plus, figuring out a ton of epithets to use instead is a lot more fun, so don’t listen to those tumblr posts that say using epithets is BAD and DUMB. That’s only true when the epithet itself is bad and dumb, like bluenette. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD DO NOT EVER USE BLUENETTE IN A SERIOUS FASHION, PLEASE. (I had to stop reading ML fic for this exact reason) This has been a writing PSA. Thank you for reading! See you next week for the conclusion of Vergil's Wild and Emotional AU Journey!


	3. the graves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night passes and brings forth an ultimatum: only one Vergil can live the life he bears witness to, and it cannot be him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you really wanna ramp up the drama in this, I HIGHLY suggest listening to ultra violet, Nelo Angelo's battle theme from DMC1, because its awesome and this whole mini-fic is basically a Vergil-themed ode to DMC1. Otherwise, please accept all this angst :D

_And I saw it was filled with graves,  
_ _And tomb-stones where flowers should be:_

The morning does not see Vergil better. Or any closer to figuring his way out of this cumbersome place. Through the tall windows of the master suite, rays of sun beam down brighter and more searing than yesterday—an odd feeling considering the winter landscape he'd come from. Could it be a different season here, too? Was Fortuna simply warmer in winter than Red Grave? His sleep-addled brain couldn't follow the thoughts as they formed, quickly and without purpose. 

His wife is gone and her side of the bed is spotless. He wonders if she was ever there at all. He did return from his confidence with Dante rather late, and if he could trust his scrambled mind at all, he’d swear that his last memories were of that lovely library downstairs. How on earth did he even wind up in this bed, again?

A shiver crawls down his spine at the thought of being trapped not only in a foreign world, but within a singular day. Science fiction was never his taste—much too ridiculous and nonsensical—but it did speak to the horrific imagination of man, of which this would certainly qualify. 

A panicked scan of the room shows him the signs proving otherwise: the staff Dante gave him is on the table, and a note in lovely cursive informs him that his wife had indeed left for an early shift at the orphanage; breakfast can be called for at any time. He has no need nor want. Nero, she added, was also scheduled for morning watch and would be back for lunch. A good time to talk to him properly, she noted. 

If he had time, he certainly finds himself wanting to speak to the boy. _A young man_ , he had to remind himself. He was, after all, aiming to marry his sweetheart and establish himself as an independent devil hunter. All to solidify his own unique strength, and not rely on the generosity of his father or the prestige of his grandfather. _Boys_ did not do that, and certainly not Sons of Sparda. 

But this Nero, as it’s so painfully obvious, is not his Nero to advise. And as far as he knew, _his_ Nero still stood in danger, on the precipice of something far more powerful than a few mere artifacts. He has to warn him, had to lend his experience just as he promised—as he owed. That is what his Nero needs, just as this Nero needs a push from his own father. Wherever or whoever that man was, Vergil is not keen to find out, lest he be faced with the exact form of his failures. 

That is what compels his muscles to rise and shake free from their exhaustion. The mere premise of motivation is more than enough to stir even his weakest forms. And there it is—the twin of very staff that brought him here. He observes it more closely than before; the feathered head gleaming in full light. The last thing he did before waking up here was placing it upon a mirror, so if he investigates...

It’s an amazingly beautiful plane of glass, but, Vergil senses something dark and evil within its reflection. As if it wants something. As if, it’s zeroed in on it’s next victim. He shakes his eyes free from its grip; it most likely is demonic or cursed in some way, but he has no time to waste on such dalliances. What intrigues him more, is the intricate cabinet besides it, beholden to a sun carved of iron—not unlike that of the very staff that sent him here. Beneath it, in demonic text, reads:

_The brightness of the guiding light will scorch you. Only those who can bear the light can open a new path._

A thoughtful hum rumbles through his mind. normally, he would welcome the challenge of a riddle, but this is just not the time and place. He needs clear words and action, not a wild goose chase. With a huff he turns, only to find another note on the desk. And he recognizes the handwriting—almost wants to scream at sight of the same slanted, large font that is his son’s own hand, the same in all worlds, it seemed. 

_Dad,_

_Brought you back upstairs this time! If you keep passing out in the library, I’d tell you to just make a bed there, but Mom would probly be pissed if you kept ditching her. So get some proper rest in a real bed! Maybe we can spar when I get back, if that’ll help? Left Yamato in my room if you wanna warm up without me._

_Love, Nero_

Have mercy, there is absolutely no possible way this boy is real. 

His legs are so slackened that they struggle to carry him out the room and down the hall, staggering at every family picture and nostalgic item that he passes on the way. He can only walk like a dying man through this heaven that is not his, nor would be, even if he confessed all his sins and admitted resolution. 

The door at the end of the hall is another barrier into his son’s life he has not earned the right to pass—at least toward the Nero that _mattered_. This Nero is so happy to have a father in his life, he invites the man into his most private space? Even in his secondary knowledge of fathers and sons, this should not have been expected. There is a clear, resolute trust between this boy and his true father—such so that Vergil feels violating it here would be to also violate it by his own Nero.

But, somehow, he nudges the door open, and a Nero’s life falls open for his witness. 

It’s not as richly decorated as every other room in the opulent house, but as tidy as a young adult's could be, surely. Tones of blue and silver and gold linger in the curtains, sheets, rugs, and accents. There’s a messy desk of papers and gun parts—even this Nero wasn’t _that_ perfect—and some wayward clothes, but nothing near his uncle’s strife. Some pictures and certificates hang on the wall alongside some swords and gun models. There are repeats of the family portraits, plus many more with Kyrie and Credo mixed in. 

And right there, below it all, is Yamato. Perched on top of a dresser like a jacket or wallet, is the most powerful devil arm known to man or demon. It calls to Vergil like a long-lost friend, like it had been when he was nothing but a shambling corpse stumbling down these exact aged cobblestone streets—

_No_. This place is different. This sword is different. This time _will_ be different. 

Yamato nearly flies into his grasp, cool and calm, its power as bright as the sun. Instantly his grogginess fades and it’s as if the Qliphoth has fed him again. As such, the wave of familiar, comforting, solid power thrums through his veins absolutely, pushing him right back up the hall into the room that weakened him the most, and confounded him so. With the _saya_ clutched firmly in his left hand, he can reach for the staff with his right and know no more hesitation. 

Now he can sense what his eyes were failing to see between the pull of the mirror and the blinding sear of high noon: Above the elegant sun emblem is a small slot—perfectly sized for the winged staff. It fights him; he actually has to plant himself firmly and push with all his might for a long moment for it finally clicks into place. For a moment the completed statue does nothing. then, a louder rumbling begins within and shifts the sun, exposing a new row of carved rays from its center, spreading its proverbial light. Alongside it, a bright flame erupts from its cabinet, reflecting off every corner of the room. Vergil feels alight with it, yet it’s cold as the winter wind he’d left behind in Red Grave. 

Then, the entire facade of the sun and the staff lifts, exposing a secret compartment home to the source of the orange light: a multi-sided die that his scrambled memories recognize instantly. The Philosopher's Stone.

He'd heard of such a thing being present in Fortuna, back upon his first visit. It was simply another option for opening a door to the demon world, before he'd learned of Temen-ni-gru. Alas, he hadn't found proof of its existence, and Arkham arrived to hand him the path to a tower on a silver platter.

He would _not_ be so naive again.

A single touch and the stone appears in his palm, perfectly fit yet utterly unnatural. It thrums with a power not unlike the fruit of the Qliphoth. Is this his reward? For what, solving the puzzle of this alternate world? Wielding the staff? No matter, a dark corner of his mind tells him, it’s might will surely be unmatched against whatever threatens his son and his power. Would Nero even need it, he begins to wonder? Nero’s needs are still his own, just as Vergil’s are his. He didn’t need to know. He didn’t need this, it was _his_. 

Even now, the peak of the stone's power spilled into the room, coalescing in the middle of the mirror. His arm reaches out of its own volition, the allure of it bewitching a pull in his hand. A finely crafted key to the underworld still called to the need of it, and so did he.

The mirror stares deeply into him as it does his soul, and there is where he begins. The eyes first, narrowing as his grow wide, the brow crinkling as his raises, the jaw setting in a hard line where his comes undone and gapes. And then the reflection moves, bringing a furious face forward as his growing shock paces backward, allowing the apparition to advance right out of the glass and into the room. 

They stand still for a long moment, the double and original returning to their mirrored faces until a breath finally forces its way out of his lungs, held for far too long. The double lets out a small chuckle, and all their shared motions melt away. 

"Well, well," the mirrored Vergil begins with a chuckle. "It seems I’ve finally found a match of my prowess."

Vergil forces his own voice back with a dry throat. "You must be the inhabitant of this...place." 

He is met only with his own scowl. "That’s a fine way of explaining _your_ trespass of _my_ home." 

"You must understand that I never intended to come here or disrupt anything. I was only seeking knowledge, to understand this—"

“Power, correct?" A mirthless smile fell from the Fortunan Vergil's lips. "That vile pursuit that nearly ruined our lives? Or just yours, it would seem.” 

Vergil straightened, a twinge of annoyance settling in his firm shoulders. "I would know myself best, I suppose."

The double scoffed. "I do. You don’t. That can be the only reason you’re really here, of course. As you can see, I don’t dabble in other peoples’ lives."

"I swear I did not—"

"You have whether you intended to or not and that is enough. I did not put twenty-five years of work into this reality for you to ruin it in a day!"

"I did no such thing!"

"Then submit!" The native Vergil reached for his side, where an elegantly sheathed sword lied in wait. 

"You should know that I will never." The trespasser did the same with his borrowed Yamato.

"Of course." 

"We have at least _that_ in common." 

Without word or even motion, his native self drew his sword and pointed out the bedroom's balcony, towards an empty courtyard in the distance of the castle. There, they would hold their duel, like honorable gentlemen at least, and lords of the underworld at best.

Their devilish smiles mirrored perfectly. 

* * *

_And Priests in black gowns, were walking their rounds,  
_ _And binding with briars, my joys & desires_

Fighting himself, Vergil realized with a note of grim humor, was much more civil than he could have ever imagined. He and himself had managed to remove themselves from the immediate vicinity of Fortuna Castle without much more squabble, though not without an unspoken, respectful distance between them. A part of himself wondered if a single touch between their alternate selves would be enough to shatter whatever power had twisted their presence. But even if that was true, he found himself wanting to settle it with a duel regardless, because that could be the only way either of them would agree to progress. 

And yet, Vergil is almost caught in his determination too steadily, lest his opponent completely escape his notice.

The man stands in the courtyard resolutely, palms rested on the handle of his sword, holding it and himself perfectly in place.

The Force Edge. That which he had raised a tower of evil for, fought his brother over, and left a son behind. Somehow, this version of himself had found and claimed it in Dante's stead. _As it should have been_ , a darker corner of his mind asserted. How and why would remain a mystery, just like every other piece of this confounding world that still wreaked havoc on his nerves, even as this reality's Yamato ventured to steady him with it's power. But one, stubborn piece of sense strove to rise above the confusion: _that_ was why his other self had passed Yamato on to Nero, because the Force Edge was more than a worthy replacement, it was simply another part of his inheritance. It was perfect. Nero would have a piece of his grandfather's legacy to call his own, to hone, and Vergil would have one befitting his own ascent. 

There are no such easy or suitable arrangements, back in Red Grave. As misconstrued and imbalanced as they were, he could not simply hand his son a sword and expect all their issues to melt away, no. Nero, being as the son he knew, would demand more until some unsaid meter was met and then move on. There would be no understanding, and certainly not any warmth, not with what little he has to offer. He cannot afford to give up Yamato; it is all he has, it is all he wants. If Nero truly wants to live up to their family's prestige, he will have to look elsewhere. This, his father cannot provide for him. 

Again, Vergil's chest thrums with something dangerous and every nerve in his spine twists in rejection. It feels just like the tattoos on V's back manifesting into his summons, if he's honest with his own thoughts. But there is no such time for that here, as his fingers twist tighter around Yamato. In front of him, his other self still waits, the high sun turning his hair into a slicked-back halo of light that could blind as efficiently as his blade. That Vergil looks every bit the part of a lord of hell, let alone a mere human isle. The soft smiles and gentle posture of the man in the parlor pictures is not here; in his place, a man, nay, demon, awaits his foe. 

This Vergil is all too glad to oblige the latter. His thumb flicks Yamato's pommel free of it's _saya_ , and the wind sings with sharpness. Neither of them speak or even breathe, before the air does so for them.

“Dad!?”

Twin spines stiffen, but only one Vergil's blood runs cold. 

_No, not like this._

But there stands Nero, this other boy that could have been his but didn’t belong to him, slack-jawed and wide-eyed like he’d never seen him. But of course, the boy was faced with two clones of his father, what more could he have possibly done?

“Nero, to me!” The other Vergil called, his expression filled with what the outsider could only assume was paternal relief. 

The young man actually paused, blue eyes rapidly shifting between his father and the charleton facing him. Both looked exactly the same, down to their clothes and faces. The mismatched swords could have been a starting point, if there were any way to tell if either of them wielded it differently. Slowly he ventured closer, one hand firm on the holster of Blue Rose and the other wearily pointing between the standoff. 

“How do I know which is which?”

The native Vergil was quick to his plan: “Ask him something only you and I would know—something specific!”

Nero stopped and scrunched his brow in the way Vergil knew to expect of his Nero. But oh, how he already missed those kind eyes from the day before. He has no idea how he can tell, but frowns simply don't suit this Nero. Blue Rose pointed at his temple, he was forced to face the one version of his son that had ever smiled at him. 

“Where were you born?” Nero demanded. 

"Outside of Red Grave City," Vergil answered seamlessly. 

But that would only prove he wasn't simply a random demon with camouflage, of course.

“When did you meet my mother?”

“During my eighteenth year.”

There, he could only pull at precious few memories... but would they be enough?

A pause. This Nero, though not his, had the same knitted brows and concentrated gaze as the son he knew, and it stirred something. This Nero wanted to know him, and Vergil had found himself wanting the same. But he would not lie. Somewhere, their paths diverged, and this boy could very well find it. 

Finally, he truly challenged the visage of his father: “When’s my birthday?”

Vergil was good at keeping surprise hidden on his own face; he’d done it for years. All the better to mask it behind anger or challenge rather than show any sign of weakness. But this question, so simple, so innocent. It was a fact, one that he could have asked his own son at any time before this madness, but it was the simplest proof of his unworthiness as a father: he had no clue even how old his son was, and he certainly had no idea if his Nero even knew of his exact birth date, given the circumstances of his abandonment. 

All Vergil could do was let his chin fall and give just the slightest shake of his head. When he bothered to glance up he was only met with a red wave of rage blooming across his son’s face, and he had to fight to keep a chuckle from escaping his throat. _There_ was the Nero he knew. 

“You son of a bitch,” he snarled, taking his place at his rightful father’s side. 

“Don’t speak of your grandmother like that,” Vergil couldn’t help it, even the worst version of himself didn’t warrant that. She certainly didn’t, but he could handle any and all insults. 

“I’ll say whatever the hell I want to a lowlife bastard like you! Do you get off on stealing other people’s families or what!?”

“Nero, calm down,” the Vergil of this world soothes, and to the impostor's shock the boy did in fact back down, but only slightly. 

Nero grasped the handle of Red Queen with a white-knuckled grip, the heavy revs of the engine conveying the rest of his outburst. 

The trespassing Vergil could not relax the battle-hungry reflexes that still kept one hand on his pilfered Yamato, but he tried to keep his voice as level as possible. “I had no ill intentions when I arrived here—accidentally, I might add.”

“Sure didn’t stop you from taking advantage! You couldn’t say a thing from the get-go?”

“Nero,” his actual father’s tone remained level, bereft of any rage of the boy’s.

“What if he did something to Mom?!”

“If I find out he did something unbecoming by your mother, he’ll suffer the consequences, but for now—“

“I’ll show him _consequences_!”

The young man escaped his father’s grasp and charged at the intruder at full sprint, one hand pulling a max-acted Red Queen free from his back while the other reared back, ready to land a two-handed blow. Vergil remained still, slowing time casually while readying his move, should he even need to make one. But despite time’s slow crawl he could see the path this alternate Nero took mirrored one he had seen long before his son’s birth, and the image of a white-haired, blue-eyed young man charging at him with a red-tinged sword brought a wave of pain to his brow. 

He knew exactly how to parry his stance, raise Yamato at the exact angle, and dive past the boy. But the slow of time gave him further thought, as well. He could with no effort simply kill this child, demand the necessary artifact from the surely-gutted father and be on his merry way back to his own realm. It would have no effect on his own Nero, of course. No one would have to know but he. It would save him the trouble of dueling his own, troublesome self if he wanted to leave, and he knew peaceful negotiations were out of the question now that his transgressions were known. 

The closer that face came forward, the looser his grip on Yamato became. 

Before Vergil allowed himself to obfuscate any longer, he released his hold on time and sidestepped slightly, leaving an empty gap where Nero’s sword still charged. With the blunt end of Yamato’s _saya_ he swiftly disarmed his son—of the Red Queen and _only_ the Red Queen—and leapt backward, the momentum of Nero’s sprint sending him straight into the dirt. 

Red Queen landed blade-first into the ground, barely settling before Vergil yanked it back out and sauntered towards his clone. 

The man was clearly pissed but only kept his grip on Force Edge, his stance ready to launch a judgement cut at any second. 

This Vergil stopped short and held out his son’s sword, waiting for the man to take it. After a long, confusing pause he did. 

Nero did not stir, but a sullen groan escaped his chest. 

Vergil tsked and held Yamato low at his side, harmlessly. “He’ll be fine, if his head is as hard as the one I know.”

“...Why?” The clone could only ask, softly. His eyes were fixed on the Red Queen, it’s fiery blaze snuffed out by its own misfire.

The actual question was left to the afternoon breeze, their identical minds, their mismatched experiences. It was obvious to both of them, unfortunately. 

_Why didn’t you kill him? Perhaps, because he’s your son?_

_Did some pesky fatherly love get in your way?_

It had been so easy to analyze Arkham; Vergil was never fooled by the man, not entirely. He simply never understood, never emphasized, never wanted to feel the pull of such complex, powerful emotions. Until now. 

Arkham, were the man somehow still alive, would have laughed and grinned that unsettling smile, the glint of his one red eye catching the glare of the moon. 

Vergil, now nearly as old as the man himself had been at the time, stands as frozen and stuttered as such. A weak, partially-deformed being defying all pull of emotion in pursuit of power. What difference was there between them, if any? 

The mad scholar had sacrificed his wife and daughter for nothing in the end. And what had been lost? A family, a legacy. 

He had sacrificed his brother and son for what? 25 years in hell? And what had he lost? The last, stubborn vestiges of this family, unbelievably regaining root in an otherwise uncultivated world. His own son, ignorant of his true heritage and power for nearly twenty years, had managed to make a stable, supportive life for himself. Vergil, with memories of a proper family and structure, struggled to find and keep what was his birthright, no matter what strategy he used. 

He would not struggle now, and he would certainly not hesitate with his only chance to take action.

“I believe we should settle this ourselves," he told his still-shocked clone, "with no possible interference.”

Instinctively he warped, from spire to spire, scaling the tall towers of Fortuna Castle with a practiced ease he didn't consciously realize he remembered. Surely the man had meant for them to fight in the yard, away from any and all prying eyes and vulnerable bodies. But that was the way of a man too consumed by care, and this Vergil cares much more for something else: escape. He needs to get back into that bedroom at any and all costs. Behind him, he can sense the quick-moving form of his aura gaining on him, and he doesn't have far to go. 

This is nothing but a dance he knows far too well, as his mind calculates the exact amount of distance he needs to put between himself and _himself_ , in order to reach the balcony, unsheath Yamato, and turn.

The blades clash with a waterfall of sparks.

“What do you fight for?" the other Vergil demands as Force Edge conveys his anger. "'You know you have no place anywhere!”

"We are one and the same! Of course I have a place. It’s simply not here." 

"No, not that rotten face of yours. Do you think I don’t know it when I see it?"

"I fight in the face of such weakness."

"I fight for my wife and son!" The lord all but roared, yet his misplaced twin could hear pride in it. "Who do you dare do the same for?"

An unseemly sear crawls up Vergil's neck, but he doesn't dare speak it into existence. "Myself, and no one else." 

“All vanity and no heart. _That_ is what you _lack_." The clone shook his head. "Such a shell I nearly became."

"You may have a point. But nothing can be done about it now.”

"That’s where you’re wrong, my horrid twin." With a slow slide of the blades the shower of light tilted up into Vergil's face and blinded him fully, his eyes searing shut with water and heat. His alternate self pressed the advantage further, hooking Force Edge beneath Yamato and tearing it right out of his grasp in a single motion. In the next, he sliced a clean cut across his foe's chest and warped to the discarded katana, wielding both his father's swords as his other self once had against Dante, in the throes of the underworld.

Still, the Fortunan lord wasn't done, as he deigned to stand above his other and speak: "You believe I didn’t think the same when the woman I’d all but forgotten about came rushing back into my life, claiming to bear my child and a battalion of holy knights on her trail? When my brother turned up alive out of nowhere and scolded me for pursuing the power to protect my wife and unborn son?"

Vergil has no answer. 

"I chose to enlist my brother in ridding this island of its vile leaders and the ilk. I chose to marry the mother of my son and raise him as the heir befitting our father’s legacy. As a result, Nero has yet to know any threat remotely near that which tore Dante and I apart the first time, and I would lay down down my life to ensure this place remains as such!"

"You’re right. I would." What sort of man is he when one of the worst assaults on his son's life was directly performed by he? Dying was the least he could do, and yet, when faced with the choice, Nero had _demanded_ he live. He would only continue to disservice him if he didn't keep up his end of the deal.

His counterpart's eyes go wide for the first time, and he uses the shock to his advantage. In one firm push he created space between them, leaning back and snatching the staff off the cabinet, catching the flash of rage on the double’s face. But he retains his momentum and twists back into the path of the man, his back right against the mirror. The man flies back at him, Yamato raised high, and Vergil closes his eyes and waits for the blow, the staff tucked in under his chin. 

It falls and after the initial clash, he hears glass shattering and then nothing at all. 

This stab of Yamato is nothing like the one before, in the parlor of the family home. The familiar cold flames steel his nerves and cut straight to his soul, but instead of pain or tearing, there is but emptiness. 

This time, he dares to hope that his hunch is right, and that a Nero is there when he wakes up again. Whatever judgement his son cares to pass this time, he will accept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few explanations!  
> \- the title and verses quoted at the start of each scene are straight from "The Garden of Love" by our very own William Blake, ofc  
> \- the importance of the bedroom is literally an ode to an ode to an ode, since the bedroom that DMC4 Nero fights in within Fortuna Castle was allegedly Sparda's, which is a callback to the castellean's room in DMC1, where Dante meets Nelo for the first time!  
> -Fortunan Lord!Vergil may not have raised temen-ni-gru, but he still has unrestricted access to a secret hell gate beneath the city, he can go grab whatever the hell wants from there lmao  
> \- I guess good!verge is polite enough to realize when he’s been sent to someone else’s life and just stood aside until canon!verge figured out the artifacts and brought him back. So if you’re looking for the other verge’s side of this I’m sorry bc 1) I would have to write it and 2) I don’t have any ideas for it :( he probly just found the closest thing to a hood and threw it on, stayed far away from Nero and Dante and just hung out for awhile lol
> 
> if you've been paying SUPER close attention you probably know that I applied the artifacts a bit unlike how DMC1 did, and the short explanation is that in light of mallet island NO LONGER EXISTING, i figured it'd be ok to remix. i feel like half the time Dante only used the weird demon stuff he found how he felt like it, and not necessarily how it was meant to be used. also, this is my silly take on irrelevant canon stuff, so does it really matter that much?? not really. 
> 
> I hope this worked as a one-shot-like thing bc that's the way i wrote it originally and the rest of the fic kinda bloomed from here. I've been sitting on most of it and i cannot tell you how much i was DYING inside when spardaverse week rolled around and this thing was just staring at me, 75% finished and waiting. but then i got caught up in the pacific rim AU and figured an au that doesn't have enough context isn't much of an au, is it? so i hope the wait and context make this out to be half as good as my brain thought in july-ish lol
> 
> thanks for reading and see you back on the sparda family road trip next week!


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